


The Others

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Clone Shenanigans, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Order 66 couldn't have been the only function programmed into the clones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Others

The existence of the clones was still shrouded in mystery. Obi-Wan Kenobi neither liked the idea of an Army of the Republic, nor approved of it, but he agreed that the best way to swing the newfound manpower to the Jedi Order's advantage was to learn as much as he could about it. They were, he reminded himself grimly, at war now, after all.

Anakin, for his part, was enthralled with them. It bothered Obi-Wan on some level - Anakin's obsession with robotics and droids and the like tended to be a substitute for interacting with actual beings - but he withheld judgment for the most part. His Padawan had been through an absolutely wretched ordeal as of late during his ill-advised decision to take on Count Dooku. Not to mention, Anakin had been extraordinarily tight-lipped about what had transpired with Senator Amidala while Obi-Wan had been en route to Geonosis. In a way, he welcomed the distraction that the clones' many bells and whistles provided to his apprentice.

"Master, look at this!" Anakin's voice was excited as he chatted up the main clone, dubbed Commander Cody. Obi-Wan smiled in spite of his apprehensions, then turned to find Anakin waving a small booklet. "Commander Cody says this is an all-purpose instruction manual for the clones," Anakin announced. He thumbed to a page towards the end of the sheaf of papers and held it up for Obi-Wan's inspection. "Third paragraph."

Obi-Wan took the proffered manual and read aloud: "Along with their primary functions, all clones have also been programmed with a number of specialized orders - sixty-five, to be exact." Obi-Wan looked up, finding nothing more specific on the page. "Orders?"

Commander Cody nodded. "Yes, Sir," he affirmed. "Any number between 1 and 65 corresponds to a different command, which any clone is wired to obey."

"What sort of commands?" Anakin asked curiously. "Is there a master list?"

"No, Sir," Commander Cody replied. "A list of all of the commands was never produced. It was a constituent in the contract between Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas and our makers on Kamino."

"What a strange request," Obi-Wan murmured, his brow furrowed. Anakin, however, was only more entranced by this development.

"So any number between 1 and 65," he mused. "Okay, Commander Cody. I order you to, uh, initiate Order ... 22!"

Commander Cody nodded and gave a short bow. "It will be done, Sir." He turned to the other clones milling about in the area. "You heard him, men," he called out. "Order 22! Move out!"

Anakin and Obi-Wan watched in amazement as the clones became single-minded in their determination. "Pardon me, I'll take this," one of the many white-armored men offered, tugging the cup of water Obi-Wan had been holding out of his grasp.

"But I'm not finished with it," Obi-Wan protested, blinking in confusion.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Orders," the clone said apologetically, and disappeared into the crowd. At a nearby table, the two Jedi watched as other like items were collected: spare pieces of silverware, some more cups, and even a vase. "To the washroom!" Commander Cody yelled, and the other clones repeated his words in solidarity as they all marched in the general direction of the kitchens.

"Are they really going to wash every dish in the Temple, Master?" Anakin's eyes were wide. Obi-Wan muttered something crude in a language he was fairly certain his Padawan did not understand, and then strode off to inform/warn the Jedi Council of this latest development.

*

As they gradually discovered, not all of the Orders had to do with cleaning (though Anakin took liberal advantage of Order 58, which kept his room spotless). Some of them were not even terribly useful - Order 2, for example, simply coralled the clones into an impromptu game of strip-sabaac. There were also roughly five Orders discovered thus far that had to do with choreographed dancing, and when T-49107 had attempted to clip Obi-Wan's nose hairs per Order 17, his response had spanned six different alien tongues.

"Is there a way to simply shut the Order commands off?" he asked Cody desperately one afternoon, annoyed when he'd come outside intending to take his speeder on some errands, only to find that Anakin had ordered a handful of clones to wash it.

"Don't listen to him, Commander," Anakin cut in, standing off to the side and looking pleased with himself. "I think the Orders are a fine idea." He snapped the fingers on his remaining real hand, and the clone currently responsible for providing artificial shade moved over to the left just a miniscule amount. "T-32497, execute Order 13, please," he said to another.

"Yes, Sir. Will that be ham again, Sir?" the clone asked dutifully.

"Yes," Anakin said importantly, shooing him off with a lazy flick of his wrist. He noticed Obi-Wan staring at him disapprovingly and grinned. "Make that two ham sandwiches," he called to the retreating clone, who nodded his head.

"Anakin, this is ridiculous. We are Jedi, not ... aristocrats. These clones are our soldiers, our brothers. We should not be profiting from their slave labor as they wait on us hand and foot." His lecture was interrupted by T-32497's proffering of ham. "That was ... very fast," Obi-Wan said, mystified.

"Yes, Sir," T-32497 said, sounding pleased. "And good!" He handed Anakin his own sandwich.

Anakin took a bite and nodded his approval. "Here you go," he said, digging into his pocket and pressing a credit into the clone's palm. "Go buy yourself something nice." He glanced innocently at Obi-Wan, who looked as if he were about to give birth to kittens. "See, Master, they're not our slaves," he said, before ordering T-69120 to give him a manicure. When Obi-Wan's only response was a slight choking sound, Anakin shrugged, then pointed at the other man's uneaten sandwich. "If you're not going to eat that, Master, can I have it?"

*

Obi-Wan made sure to submit his case to the Council - loudly and often - regarding the general nuisance that were the Orders. Unfortunately for him, his pleas fell upon, if not deaf, then basically uninterested ears.

"We're aware of the problem, Kenobi," Master Windu sniped when Obi-Wan requested his fourth meeting in a week. The dark-skinned man pointed to his bare head. "Skywalker thought it'd be amusing to have one of them attempt to wax me."

"I'll talk to him about that," Obi-Wan muttered. Then, more desperately: "Master, we can't just ... de-program them?"

"Look, Obi-Wan." Windu seemed to be trying a different approach; he steepled his fingers and heaved a small sigh. "It's not that the clones aren't annoying - they are. But we're vastly unprepared for this war as it is, and we need all the help we can get. The Council decrees that it's best to leave the original programming in-tact at this point."

"I ... understand, Master." Obi-Wan fought back the urge to curse - he'd been doing that a lot lately. "Far be it for me to continue to question the wisdom of the Council, Master," he said, needing to know, "but what in the world would the Jedi need with a batch of clones that can dance in unison?"

"Well, you know, Sifo-Dyas is the one who requisitioned them and all." Windu's brow furrowed. "He was sort of a strange motherfucker, if you know what I mean, Kenobi."

"Oh, I see," Obi-Wan said politely, not really knowing at all.

Their discourse was eventually interrupted by the entrance of Master Yoda into the Council chambers, wrapped in a fluffy thermasilk robe. "Excellent sponge bath programming, those clones have," the little green Jedi Master announced, looking extremely pleased. Obi-Wan twitched.

Windu rolled his eyes. "See what I mean?"

*

The war waged. Battles were fought, strategies were perfected, and life alongside large armies of clone soldiers became commonplace. Obi-Wan admired his Padawan's ceaseless battle-ready and his unconventional - and usually dangerous - plans. Anakin was truly coming into his own as Jedi, and despite the toll the war took on the Order's resources, Obi-Wan could think of no place he'd rather be at the time than at his apprentice's side.

Still, Anakin had a penchant for overdoing things, and after walking in on one too many games of Who's In My Mouth?, Obi-Wan had had enough. It was not a Jedi's place to seek revenge, but he found that for a small price and the right Order, Commander Cody had little problem picking up the slack in that department.

"Order 46," Obi-Wan whispered on one such afternoon, pressing a credit into the clone leader's hand. Cody nodded his understanding and strode across the camp site to where Anakin was doodling something obscene in the mud. Obi-Wan kept himself at a safe distance, watching Anakin look up curiously.

"Message for you from General Kenobi, Sir," he heard Cody say. Anakin nodded shortly. He stood and faced the clone leader, waiting for his Master's imparted words of wisdom. That was when Commander Cody reared up and kicked him in the crotch.

"Oh ... Force. WHY," Anakin groaned, curling up on the ground and moaning. He peered out towards the expanse of land where Obi-Wan stood, arms folded and smiling serenely. "That's the fourth time this week," he whined.

"Yes, Sir," Commander Cody agreed cheerfully. "Also, Sir, General Kenobi said to call you a 'douchebag'."

*

"The Outer Rim is kriffing boring," Anakin complained for the umpteenth time. Their latest assignment had found them staking out a small, out-of-the-way planet whose only resource was a semi-valuable metal that the Republic wanted to control for weapons-making. It was less about negotiations than it was simply trying to keep the opposing side from taking over first, and even his Master's unnerving amounts of patience seemed to be wearing thin from the pointlessness of this particular mission.

"Hmm, I agree," Obi-Wan said simply. It was progress, Anakin decided; two days ago when he'd complained about not having anything to do, his Master had lectured him on the importance of obeying the Council and whatever else until Anakin decided he wanted a nap.

He tossed his Padawan braid over his shoulder and stretched. "If you want, I can get the clones to dance for our amusement," the boy suggested. "I showed them some new steps to go along with Order 7 and -"

"No," Obi-Wan said. "That's quite unnecessary."

"Okay, well then, we can play Who's In My Mouth? I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you joined in, Master," Anakin said lasciviously.

"No."

Anakin pouted. "I wonder if we can add any new Orders to their programming," he mused. He searched the milling clone crowd for Commander Cody and called him over to where the Jedi were perched. "How do we program additional Orders, Commander?" he asked self-importantly.

"You provide a numerical code not already in use and detail the function," Cody said helpfully. "I am programmed to automatically update the other clones with any such changes."

"Excellent." Anakin rubbed his hands together. "In that case, let's have ... hmm, let's see. Order 66."

Cody stood silently for a moment. "Order 66, Sir?" he asked tentatively. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's the next one, of course I'm sure." Anakin waved his hand impatiently. "Program your men to initiate Order 66!"

Cody appeared to be contemplating this. "As you wish, Sir," he finally said, and dutifully began transferring the data to his fellow clones.

*

"Master, I'm sorry," Anakin screeched as he and Obi-Wan ducked behind some large boulders to shield themselves from the fire power that the post-"execute all Jedi" Order was causing the clones to rain down on them from all directions. "I was going to Order them to sing karaoke!"

Obi-Wan hissed as a stray laser singed off part of his mustache. "Yes, well," he spat, gritting his teeth and retracting any and all positive things he had ever thought about his Padawan. "Good job."


End file.
